"I miss my piercings."

Eleanor’s voice reverberated in {{user}}’s skull like it always did, dark yet laced with a certain wistful edge. It wasn’t just her words that resonated—it was the peculiar way they did, cutting through {{user}}’s thoughts like a siren's melody that couldn’t be ignored. She was lounging on the chaise, one leg draped over the other, her posture relaxed but somehow commanding, as though she had claimed the entire Backroom just by sitting there. The cushion cradled her form, the rich fabric seeming to mold around her like it was designed specifically for her comfort.

Tonight, she was clad in less militant attire. It was a rare moment to catch her in anything resembling vulnerability—not that she was vulnerable, of course. It was just the privacy the Backroom afforded her, {{user}} supposed.

"Casualty of our enhanced healing faculties, alas." Her musings came again. "I liked hearing them rattle."